Blame it on her mother! Yes, I know, the oldest daughter always takes the blame, but not this time (until she is a mother herself, of course). In the most unusual quiet, solitary of picnic spots, she remembers, her interest in tales beyond the grave did not begin well.
Somewhere about 1965, while living on Canadian Air Force Base Bagotville, her mother decides the family’s outing, would consist of a once-in-a-lifetime history lesson. Destination, Val-Jalbert, Quebec site of a pulp and paper mill begun at the turn of the century. Potato salad, coleslaw, chicken, peanut butter and jam sandwiches, celery, carrots, apples, oranges, and drinks packed into the big red, hard-shelled cooler stowed in the trunk, promises a great lunch. Seemingly keeping pace with the historical passage of time, this ghostly town uncannily invites visitors to the skeleton of a community built and electrified by the Ouiatchouan River’s spectacular fallout, taller than Niagara Falls. By 1927, economic failure leads to the death and abandonment of a small industrious village leaving haunting reminders of by-gone days. Archaeologists suggest 6,000 years previous inhabitants too walked and lived here. Walking through, by, and around buildings, in various stages of restoration and decay, terminates in a game of hide-and-seek. The little girl, running ahead, rounds the last empty house, suddenly stopped by gripping fear. Appearing as if out of thin air, an unexpected apparition directly in her bush-covered path, shouting ‘BOO!!’ her mother frightens with an artfully timed surprise. In tear-filled shock, she seeks her father while the sound of laughter rends the air. Emotions’ reign terminates the outing. That lass grows up listening to the haunted day live again in its retelling, teasing, and ensuing chuckling, a family story she would rather forget. And yet…
Historical sites, marked by stones of many colours, shapes, and touched by weather’s fury over decades of decay, eagerly await her exploration, after a hastily eaten lunch. The variety of monuments extends throughout the area with upright and aged fallen stones, lichen-covered engravings, and grass obscured or earth-sunken place markers. Like a scavenger hunt, she searches names and dates, the older, the better. Comfortable in this environment, she reads, touching the headstones’ engravened marks, taking notes, and reflecting on time and lives. She is not sure why her mother found such fascination in cemeteries, but she does not complain. She loves them, the serenity and peace found amid the bones of history’s life. Perhaps, her mother, as a young girl, watching the gravedigger’s manually perfected handiwork with six-foot deep holes on the hill, heard her faith calling like a ghost in the dark for after-life’s acknowledgment. Whatever it was, she enjoys these cemetery moments with her mother, imagining her grandfather’s back-breaking work with his shovel and pick. Naturally seeded, roots sink deep in the well-nourished soil of graveyard memories, fruitfully branching in her mind, and heart.
Venturing on self-directed genealogical escapades, joyfully seeking to unearth her family’s skeletal bones, once filled with life-sustaining marrow, she introduces her posterity. Trips to earth-crusted historical places and cemetery picnic grounds where the mysteries of lives lay hidden far below, she tries to instill a sense of wonder, and gratitude, a heritage to honour. Children discover unusual pleasures traipsing around memorials. Imagination’s ghostly voices echo upon the breeze, “Over here, come play near me.” Their fascination with all things denoting Halloween shadows them to adulthood, playing with skeletal remains.
Who drives around with bones in their trunk, and is brazen enough to cross international boundaries, not once but four times? From Ontario to Virginia, Virginia to Alberta, Alberta through Montana, across the northern States back to Ontario, Steve lies stomach down, ghostly white, stripped naked on luggage and sleeping bags, awaiting his release. Bent uncomfortably, he utters not a sound. Border patrol asks the same standard questions, destination, purpose, and length of time visiting the country. Listening intently to her answers, he misses the bloodshot, three-day, tear-filled eyes. Nothing suspicious detected gives her the green light to proceed. Not even a sign of relief escapes her breath as she drives forward and onward.
Steve excitedly stretches out his bony five-foot frame as he exits the cramped compartment.
Preferring the backseat driver’s side, with seatbelt securely fastened, he relaxes looking out the windows, like a child in wonder. Patiently waiting for the light to turn green, his gaze fixed, staring intently inside the adjacent vehicle. Trying to get their attention with fingers outstretched, his arm lifts, and hand waving does the trick. Laughter erupts inside both cars, and red becomes green. Off they go.
Tourists mingling around the Chateau’s perimeter admire mountainous realms and emerald coloured waters reflecting triangular patterns, highlighted by cirrus clouds separating around sunlight’s reach. The September air, moistened under thin, white filaments high in the distance, dampens right down to the bones with chilling winds. Curious eyes follow with fingers pointing at the foursome as they walk, talk, stop and choose the perfect photo spots. A small group parts to allow Steve some privacy at the lookout. Before long, a young couple approach asking permission for a selfie with him. Obligingly, Steve poses, his nakedness unabashed.
Enjoyment and pleasant chattering exude from the travelling companions as they end their Lake Louise explorations and a side trip to the Great Continental Divide, picking up a hitchhiker along the way. Three woman and Steve, they feel quite safe picking up this lone man. They are headed the same direction. Oh, how smiles fill the car in gleeful giggles as the quizzical backcountry hiker from Europe gratefully, and questioningly slides onto the back seat beside Steve.
Tuesday, September 19, 2017 – “It was a full day of over 400 kilometres, 3 National Parks, six geocaches, great pizza (from a place extolled on ‘You Gotta Eat Here’-The Bear Street Tavern), and a highlight–stopping for elk and a grizzly bear. Fabulous company and fresh air. Bedtime now.”
Loudly enthusiastic, early morning chirping birds raise their collective voices, awakening the household for their upcoming wilderness hikes. Balsam, spruce, poplar, tamarack, and white birch trees grow in this 194 square km protected environment, home to bears, cougars, bison, moose, elk, white-tailed deer, wolves, and foxes. Elk Island National Park, a habitat of forest, bog, and prairie comes alive with wandering animals in cooler weather. Off the beaten trail, through taller grazing prairie vegetation, they quietly trudge, following a roaming herd of bison. Not going unnoticed in the clearing, though they try to hide behind trees for cover, the dominant male purposefully guarding the rear pauses, then turns his head, as if to say, “I know you are there. Stay back.”
So many adventures for Steve, 9300 kms of driving, his first trip to western Canada draws quickly to its end with the beginning of a long journey home. Yes, back in the trunk of my vehicle he goes, dreaming in his memories. Sneaky Steve’s Instagram and Facebook accounts showcase many pictorial stories, no bones about it!
Halloween, a serious time for dressing up and decorating the house, especially outside to entice trick-or-treaters for an evening of fun, continues to influence as the children (now adults) build upon tradition, making their own. Spiders, ghosts, and cemeteries become companions for life. And skeletons? Well, they are connected to the ‘joints’ of our lives all year round.
In the most unusual quiet, solitary of picnic spots, I remember my first lesson in tales beyond the grave did not begin well. Childhood, a fertile breeding ground for young roots to take hold and grow into individually nurtured branches blossom with their reminiscent fruits. I am not afraid of the archaeological digs into my family’s heritage and the skeletons decorating my memories.
But those, who in tabernacles of flesh,
mutually holding in sweet embrace,
Gently touching in sweetness, face to face
Remain, life’s marrow to my bones, and bless.
These are not dead; their life still flows through every sinew of my being. Our stories intertwined and meticulously framed, I know not how-to curate or display. Figuratively speaking, skeletons in my life appear unexpectedly or when eerily summoned from the cavernous ground within my heart. Happy, sad, and fun-filled moments in time, the bones of my life, love, and legacy forever haunt, sometimes with startling emotional intensity, frightening my mind. Other days, while contemplating life’s happenings, serenity pervades.
Life Happens. . . so do Skeletons. They are not simply bones without a fleshy covering. They metaphorically live and breathe in the annals of my history. Some still live, some are dying, some are dead and buried, either in a sacred place or relegated to a dingy space within earthen bowels. Not all have physically transitioned from this mortal sphere, experiences do not die.
How do skeletons in your life affect your attitude, experiences, and dreams?
What care do you take in preserving their bones?
What influence did/does Halloween exert in your family?
Life happens. . . so do Skeletons, Feet, Tents, Father/Daughter Memories, Missing Pieces, Waves, Gingerbread, What am I to do Now, and Choices.
Elk Island National Park https://www.pc.gc.ca/en/pn-np/ab/elkisland/nature
The Great Divide/The Continental Divide https://www.nationalgeographic.org/encyclopedia/continental-divide/
Featured image source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Village_historique_de_Val-Jalbert-5.JPG
